He ignored them.
For the first time in too many years, something inside him felt dangerously alive. And it terrified him more than the gods themselves.
Chapter four
Thorn and Blade
-Maris-
Maris had never known such pain.
Every step back from the training yard felt like dragging open wounds across stone. Her arms throbbed from endless dagger drills, her ribs screamed from repeated strikes, and bruises blossomed like cruel flowers beneath her pale skin.
But that pain was something she clung to a proof that she was still herself, still Maris of Eryndor, and not yet swallowed by this cursed, nightbound place.
They passed through a side hall in Calyrix Castle, dim and cool, its walls lined with iron sconces that dripped fragrant wax, shadows dancing like caged spirits. Maris’s boots scuffed over a black marble floor polished so bright it nearly reflected her ragged state.
When they reached her assigned chambers, the hearth flickered low offering an inviting warmth. As she walked within the threshhold the twin wraiths bowed in perfect tandem, flaxen-haired, their eyes the same eerie shade of ash-gray.
“Mistress Maris,” one intoned.
“We have prepared your supper,” the other finished.
She blinked at them, dizzy.
Valea waved them forward. “She is to be bathed. Then changed.”
They nodded, taking Maris gently by her arms and helping her toward an adjoining bathing chamber. The copper tub steamed in the center, fragrant with a hint of crushed herbs and rose oil. The twins stripped her sweat-soaked leathers with efficient, impersonal hands, ignoring Maris’s flinch at every new bruise.
The water burned at first, then eased, sinking deep into her bones as they scrubbed away dirt, sweat, and fear. They poured a rinse of perfumed water over her hair, combing through the tangles with near-silent patience. When they were done, they dried her, wrapped her in a thick crimson robe, then dressed her in a gown of black silk and lace, whisper-soft, its fine straps leaving her arms bare and the neckline scandalously low.
Like a prize, she thought bitterly — or a sacrifice.
Valea waited for her in the sitting area before the hearth, her gaze hard but not unkind.
“You will rest tonight. At daybreak, training will resume. From dawn to high noon, you will spar, drill, and be tested. The afternoons you will spend with the historians, learning the truth of Achyron, of the five gods, of their gifts and their wraith. You will study the curse. The Veil. Our ways.”
Maris swallowed, “And the evenings?”
Valea’s mouth thinned into something near a smile.
“You will dine in court with the King and the nobles, unless the King commands your presence privately.”
A shiver raced down Maris’s spine at that.
“Rest now,” Valea added. “No one will disturb you tonight.”
Maris tried to laugh but could only manage a hollow breath. Valea left, closing the heavy oak door behind her with a solid finality. Maris found the gilded bed too large, too cold, so she settled instead into a cushioned armchair near the hearth. On a small side table lay a book, its cracked leather spine stamped with the crest of Nythra.
Curious, she opened it, trying to lose herself in the pages. The story was about a chosen child who tried to save their kingdom from divine punishment, but in the end — failed, sacrificing their own soul to spare a city that burned anyway.
The tale sank like stones into her already drowning mind.
Is that to be me? A sacrifice for a pointless cause.
Hours must have passed in the firelight, the flicker of flames making her eyelids heavy.
Then, a single knock.
